He turns the water off in the bathroom and waits a few minutes for the water to shed off her body. The bleeding has all but stopped.
Sliding the shower curtain to the wall, he kneels by the tub and rolls Shirley’s body on its left side. Using his boning knife, he slices her right shoulder, cutting the muscles and tendons. David removes the arm. He removes her right leg and turns the torso over and removes the left arm and leg. The blood flow is minimal.
The killer lays the torso on its back and starts to remove the breasts but there is too much blood. He chastises himself for his sloppy work, his disorganized procedure. If he is not careful he will make a dangerous blunder. He leaves everything as is in the tub and turns the shower back on.
David goes back to the front room and places the scorecard on the floor in a conspicuous spot. The par 5 is marked 7 in a double box and the match play column is marked 1 up. He remains only 1 up, instead of 3 up. He has to make par or less on each hole or he will lose.
He is playing like an amateur and feels small and humiliated as if his father were standing over him. He has to compose himself and think clearly.
David opens the balcony and after making certain no one is outside, he takes the pitching wedge and chips the number 4 ball into the grass adjacent to the room. He lays the club on the floor between the tee markers and returns to the bathroom.
He arranges the appendages in the tub, side by side, as if they were a pair of diamonds.
David removes the plastic coveralls and shower cap and carefully puts them in Ziploc bags. He washes and dries his knives and places everything in his briefcase.
Joan is dressed. As she picks up her bag and briefcase, she glances in the mirror by the door and approves of the woman in the reflection.
Chicago, Illinois, Sunday, April 7
Chapter 28
The third hole was an absolute debacle. Joan rushes back to the villa and David strips off her clothes and takes over as he showers.
David secures Shirley Scott’s trophies in a clean baby food jar and does a quick job of cleaning and sanitizing his knives. He will sharpen them in Chicago. The entire time he is packing he is chastising himself and anticipating winning the fourth hole.
He calls the front desk and once again pleads family emergency and checks out before sunrise Thursday morning. He disposes of the plastic coveralls, gloves and shower cap in three separate dumpsters on his way out of town.
He is on a familiar part of I-35 and will soon approach the exit that will take him to Oak Park. The drive was rigorous with ten-hour days, bad food, and mediocre chain hotels. He called Sarah, the housekeeper, from Denver and told her he was coming home for a few days. She will have everything in order, just as he expects. Over the years she has learned to keep the house in meticulous condition, the house his father bought, the house where his mother died.
The familiarity of the neighborhood is soothing as he gets closer to home. The big houses, the manicured landscapes covered with a dusting of late snow, the old trees, so lush in the summer and now barren with just a few buds to prove spring is coming. The only thing that has really changed since his childhood is the trees; they are larger and more magnificent than ever.
His neighborhood is elegant and established, where the affluent people lived, why his father had moved there.
David makes a turn on Whittier and pulls into the driveway and stops under the portico on the east end of the house. It all looks so peaceful. He sits for a moment; everything is just as he had left it. He expects Sarah to emerge at any moment. The garages are behind the house but he wants to unpack things before he stores the Navigator. His father’s Rolls will still be sitting in the garage. Nothing has been done with it; it hasn’t been driven since his death. David hates the car, it’ll probably never be driven, and he is terrified of it.
Sarah steps out onto the veranda, holding her sweater closed with her free hand and waves to David. He gives her a broad smile and waves back, then rolls the window down.
“Hello, Sarah! I’m home for a few days. How is everything?”
“Everything is fine, David. Shall I make dinner?”
Sarah is in her sixties, the only constant in the childhood of the man who now employs her. She has an aristocratic bearing, gray hair, her body slim but strong; she is extremely proper and neat. She was pretty when she was young and is attractive now. She never married; she has devoted her life to his family.
He thinks a moment. “No, I think I just want to sleep. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine as always, David. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” She turns and quickly walks back into the house.
Sitting in the shadow of the huge house, he suddenly has an indiscernible sensation of either rage or sorrow, he doesn’t know which. He experiences a myriad of emotions whenever he’s home.
He opens the car door and steps out into a brisk wind; no wonder Sarah hurried back into the house. He stretches and yawns and does a couple of knee squats to get the blood flowing in his legs.
He’s glad it is Sunday because it’s Albert’s day off. Albert is a competent gardener and handyman, and responsible for everything outside the house. Sarah’s domain is inside the house.
Albert would be trying to help unload David’s things out of the car and his absence makes it easier on David; he’s too tired to unload today. He retrieves the briefcase from the back of the car, hits the lock button and enters the house from the side entry.
He steps into the anteroom anticipating the wave of negative emotions that hits him like a disgusting smell. He wonders why he still lives in this house.
David climbs the grand stairway to the private rooms. The master suite is his now. He remodeled it completely before he moved in until there was no trace of his parents in the room. He would have liked to modernize it, but it would have conflicted with the neo-classical style of the house, so he preserved the natural woods and ornamentation.
The master suite with a study, sitting area and luxurious private bath is his favorite room in the house. There are days that he never leaves the room or opens the blinds. Sarah serves his meals there.
The isolation is his; he doesn’t relate to it as solitude but more as being surrounded by himself wearing his environment; much as a tree fits into the sunlight and the wind and grows accordingly. He walks around the room and sees that nothing has been disturbed since his departure. It is dusted and vacuumed, and the linens are fresh.
David places his briefcase on the desk and settles into the elegant leather chair facing the bay window that looks out on the expansive gardens. The north portion of the garden is spotted with snow, such a contrast to early spring when the lawn and gardens are manicured and the lilacs are full, dense and light purple. The double rows of lilacs planted across the back of the property are just now budding.
He regrets he won’t be here in May to see them in full bloom and smell their fragrance filling the garden and the house. His mother had always kept large bouquets of the lilacs throughout the house; he has kept her tradition alive by insisting that Sarah does the same.
David puts his head in his hands and scolds himself for feeling compelled to visit the past. Dr. Jensen urged him to look forward, to think in terms of now. Now, he must think of the match.
He will need more cash for the remainder of the game. He has a great deal of money in one of the safe deposit boxes at the bank. He will take it from there to avoid any questions; he plans to take $10,000 with him. He can keep it in the secret compartment above the right rear wheel of the car.
David lies on the couch and covers himself with his grandmother’s quilt. The warmth and smell of the quilt is soothing and he soon drifts off to sleep.
David is walking through a neighborhood that seems familiar, yet is not. He is looking for Buster; whistling and calling, whistling and calling. He can see movement and thinks it might be the dog but it is just a shadow. He keeps calling; the street is getting da
rker with each step and soon it will be completely dark. He is crying. Why won’t Buster come to him, why?
There are car headlights behind him; he can see again, but he is terribly frightened of the car. He can just make out something lying ahead in the street. He runs to it, screaming, “Buster, Buster! Please, God, don’t let it be Buster!”
He reaches the dead dog. It’s not Buster! The dog has been hit by a car, its head is swollen and the eyes are pushed out of their sockets. The dog’s intestines are oozing out on the street and surrounded by a pool of blood.
He wants to scream, but sees another carcass and runs to it. Is it Buster? He runs from carcass to carcass, each one more mutilated than the one before. The headlights are getting closer and closer, he can feel the heat of the lights on his back. None of the dogs is Buster, where is Buster?
He will find whoever has done this, and if Buster is…a clock is chiming…he can’t reconcile it, what is a clock doing in the street…no, it’s the chimes on the clock in my bedroom…I’m dreaming….
With quickened breathing and clammy palms, David springs upright, pulling and pushing to get the quilt untangled from his legs. The room is dark except for a small lamp on his desk. He tries to stand, loses his balance and falls back on the couch. He is damp and the room is cold.
He looks over at the lamp and doesn’t remember turning it on. Then he notices a tray on the desk. Sarah has apparently brought him a sandwich and tea. The teapot is stone cold and the sandwich looks stale.
He shakes his head at the recurring Buster nightmare, as he named it. Buster has been dead for at over twenty-five years. David knows exactly what happened to Buster and it was not a car that killed him.
Still, in his mind, he can see Buster standing by the lilacs, his leash tied to the branches.
Buster was constantly tipping over the trashcans. David tried to make him stop but Buster was curious and kept getting in the trash. David was frantically picking up the trash when his father drove in.
His father emerged from the Rolls. “Take the dog and tie him up in the backyard.”
David did as he was told. He was standing next to Buster when his father emerged from the house carrying one of his pistols. His mother was behind him, grabbing at his arm but he pushed her away.
His father grabbed David by the arm, holding him away from Buster and then shot Buster in the head twice. All David could focus on was the contrast of green grass and purple lilacs splattered with spots of dark red blood.
He heard his mother scream, his father threw him to the ground like a bag of garbage. His father and mother went back into the house and no one ever mentioned Buster again.
David lay sobbing on the grass next to his dead dog sobbing. Buster was the only one who loved him, and he wished his father had shot him too. He felt Sarah’s caring arms gently lifting him from the grass; and it was her, not his mother, who carried him to his room, cleaned him up, and sat with him while he wept.
The next day David went to the spot where Buster had died. The bushes and grass had been hosed clean as if nothing had happened. He was too afraid to ask where Buster had been buried; he didn’t want to hear his dog had been dropped in the trash.
It is eleven-thirty; it will be six hours at least before there is any light. He pulls the quilt over his body and up around his neck. He closes his eyes and tries to relax.
When he awakens it is light outside. It is seven-forty. David stands and stretches and at the desk he switches on the intercom to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Sarah, how are things going this morning? I’m going to shower then I’ll be down for breakfast. Would you make my usual breakfast for eight-thirty?”
“Good morning, David. All is well here. Yes, of course I will be happy to make your special breakfast.”
He strips his clothes off and folds them neatly for Sarah to launder. He steps into the warm shower. The shower has been specially designed to spray from above and from the sides at the same time. The tile was handmade to his specifications and as he showers he is surrounded by a garden of irises only suggested by their subtle colors and relief in the tile.
He shaves his face and when he is thoroughly clean he towels off with an elegantly plush towel. He has missed his towels. He has missed being able to wear his hair down, and he brushes it briskly while blow-drying. He leaves it glistening and flowing on his shoulders.
He dresses casually in slacks and a sweater, socks and house slippers and takes the stairs two at a time to the kitchen. Sarah is at the large stove burning bacon and just beginning to poach three eggs.
“Hi, Sarah! I’ll get the toast.”
Sarah was watching the stove. “Did you sleep all night on that couch, David?” She turns the bacon.
“Yes, I did; thanks for the sandwich. I tried to eat it in the middle of the night but I was more tired than hungry.” The toast jumps up.
“When are you resuming your vacation?” She tests the eggs with a spoon. “Bring me that toast, please. The eggs are almost ready.”
David brings the toast on the plate she has set out. Sarah spoons the eggs onto the bread and places the bacon beside them.
“The coffee and juice are on the table; so is the morning paper. Would you like anything else? If not, I’ll tidy up in your room and get the tray.”
“No, thanks.” He is already distracted by the front page as Sarah leaves the kitchen. David scratches his right forearm where the scratches are just blemishes now, not noticeable to anyone but him.
The breakfast is exactly to his liking, the best thing he’s had since he left two months ago. Abandoning the newspaper, he concentrates on eating.
When he returns to his suite, it looks as if he’s never been there. This is Sarah’s way. If it was summer, she would have left cut flowers from the garden. During the winter she has them brought in. Today there are vases with peonies and tulips.
He will unload the car and then go to the packing plant. The plant is closed Sunday and Monday so old Art, the watchman, will be the only one there.
Walking through the house on his way to the car he is comfortable in the pristine, almost sanitized environment. While at home, he seldom feels the need to cleanse his hands as frequently as he does in the outside world.
He lifts the golf bags out first, then the rest of the luggage. He carefully and systematically carries everything into the anteroom, then reorganizes it and proceeds to move everything to its assigned place.
Of course, Sarah arrives and wants to take his bags and clothing for laundering, but he insists that he wants to take his bags to his room to count and sort his clothing himself. After years of living with his compulsiveness, she simply asks him to let her know when he wants the clothing cleaned and pressed.
“Yes, I will, Sarah. Meantime, please ask Albert to clean my clubs tomorrow. I plan to leave Chicago in a week or so, depending on my business arrangements, and I want everything clean and organized before I leave.”
Back in his room, he sorts and counts his clothing. Standing at the marble top table adjacent to the bathroom door, he places his clothing on one end of the table and Joan’s clothing on the other end. Sarah knows Joan, having comforted Joan on many occasions, just as she has comforted David. Sarah has experienced David’s life right along with him.
He locks the baby food jars in a drawer of the desk. He returns to the Navigator and removes all of the hidden items: the cash, the Glock, the match play game pieces, and carries them to the study and locks them in the safe.
He chooses his herringbone Irish tweed cap and coat and tells Sarah he is going out and will be back by seven. “The laundry is ready for you in the usual place. You’ll be sure to have it done in time to pack?”
“Absolutely, David. Is a salmon filet all right for dinner?”
“Yes, and I believe I’ll dine in my room. Thank you for everything, Sarah. I’ll see you later!”
Sarah’s smile warms David as he opens the door to leave.
Chapter 29
The packing plant is in downtown Chicago; the drive on a Monday takes about an hour. A-Prime Packing Plant is the only plant that remains in The Yards which was the meatpacking district in Chicago for more than a century. Now the old buildings are fancy offices and four star restaurants. In the early 1900s, The Yards had been confined to an area in the southern part of the city. The land itself is priceless and David’s father got supreme satisfaction by not selling when everyone else did.
The area was bordered by 39th and 47th Streets and by Halstead and Ashland. There was a different ethnic neighborhood living on each border and most of the men had worked in the plants. A-Prime Packing is in the southeastern corner of The Yards. David knows zoning changes will force him to sell, but for now he shares his father’s obstinacy.
He parks in front of the main office and looks up at the building. It covers an entire block and goes up to six stories high. It is entirely constructed of block and brick. The coolers and the access to the tracks are on the opposite side of the block, where the kill room is.
David worked in the kill room for three months. Then for a year, he was assigned to work a prescribed amount of time on every floor, to learn the business. He was then sent to train as a store manager, his father saying it was a proper foundation for management.
The whole place looks cold and eerie, surrounded by snow, bleak and frigid without the steam rising as it does during the week when processing is underway. The building looks like a corpse.
He walks up to the main entrance, enters his personal code on the alarm pad and lets himself in. He will have to go by the downtown offices Tuesday to see Mr. Einsinger, but now he wants to be left alone. The business offices are on the sixth floor; he isn’t interested in anything up there and never has been. He figures if he is careful, old Art will never know he’s been there. Of course, his code will show up in the security system, making his presence apparent to anyone who checks.
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